


Just knock three times and whisper low

by withdiamonds



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Gen, NHL Lockout, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-10
Updated: 2012-10-10
Packaged: 2017-11-16 01:02:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withdiamonds/pseuds/withdiamonds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not like there was a secret Master List and a guy with a burner phone sitting in a hidden location somewhere in Brooklyn making mysterious calls in the middle of the night. </p><p>"Briere? You're up. Germany. Start packing.  And take Giroux with you."</p><p>Was there?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just knock three times and whisper low

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by quiet1, who in a conversation about players going to Europe during the lockout, said, "I am also quite curious as to how much when players go where is actually strategic. Obviously going to play for another team is complicated enough that they can't just write a script, but if all of the big names had bailed at once, that might have made people less supportive of the players, for example."
> 
> I didn't use the "crack" tag because hey, this might be true!

Mr. Smith took off his glasses and laid them down on the desk, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He sighed and looked at the clock.

It was after midnight, and he was tired. Time to shut it down for the night. He logged out of Google docs, closing the spreadsheet and checking the privacy settings as a matter of course.

He couldn't afford to be careless. Leave it to that bastard Bettman to have a hacker on his payroll. 

That last phone call had been a tough one. Danny Briere had had a rough summer, and he really didn't want to leave his kids. But orders were orders, and at least it had been arranged for Claude Giroux to go with him, in spite of his stated desire to play for Kladno with Jagr.

Mr. Smith thought they'd enjoy themselves in Germany once they settled in. He smiled fondly. It would be like a second honeymoon, really.

Looking warily around his darkened living room and seeing nothing suspicious, Mr. Smith's smile grew. He didn't really expect anyone to be peering in his windows, but it never hurt to be too careful. Pulling his wallet out of his pocket, he extracted a piece of yellow legal paper, the edges of its folds worn and creased. 

Smoothing it out, Mr. Smith read over the list of names scribbled down the page. He knew them by heart – he'd written the list himself, after all. It was a short list, but an important one, and one that he entrusted only to his own eyes.

With a satisfied nod, he drew a line through "Briere and Giroux – Germany."

 ~~Hall and Eberle, Oklahoma City~~  
Carter and Richards – late October, Sweden  
Toews and Kane – not until Christmas, only if necessary, UK  
Keith and Seabrook – early November, Switzerland  
 ~~Briere and Giroux – Germany~~  
Price and Subban – US Thanksgiving, Sweden  
 ~~Malkin~~ and Crosby - KHL  
Parise and Suter - Czech Republic  
 ~~Ovechkin and Semin, KHL~~

Getting Crosby to the same place as Malkin was proving to be difficult, but Mr. Smith was determined to keep them together. He would do his best for them, as he would do his best for all the men on his special list.

Still smiling his secret smile, Mr. Smith re-folded the yellow paper with care and placed it back in his wallet.

He thought over his to-do list for tomorrow as he opened the back door to let the cat in. She gave him a disdainful look as she weaved through his ankles, and he spared a moment to make sure there was food in her bowl.

Hank Zetterberg's $50 million dollar contract needed some major insurance, but Mr. Smith knew of a league in England that might be willing to budge on that. He would call in the morning.

Zetterberg had been at Mr. Fehr's side throughout most of the "negotiations," so sending him to Europe would certainly make a statement to the NHL. Whether that statement was _we're in this for the long haul and standing strong and united_ or _hey, there, Bettman, we're not even trying anymore, screw you and the rest of the season,_ Mr. Smith wasn't sure, but it wasn't his job to ask questions.

As he turned off the lights that shone onto his small backyard, Mr. Smith grimaced when he realized his cat had left a dead mouse on the stoop.

*

One week later, after "negotiations" in New York that addressed such vital issues as how many towels per player were to be stocked in each locker room and what color M&Ms Sidney Crosby liked with his pre-game meal, three names popped up in the daily text message from Mr. Fehr.

"Good gracious," Mr. Smith whispered to himself. "All three of them at once? And to three different places? Oh, my."

He spent most of the day on the phone with various insurance agents and European GMs. Email would have been much easier, but emails left a trail. Mr. Smith had a stockpile of burner phones, thanks to Mr. Fehr, and those couldn't be traced.

He made himself some dinner, and after letting the cat out for the evening, settled down to watch _Dancing With the Stars._ He really hoped this was the week that Bristol Palin finally went home.

At ten o'clock, he sorted through his phones, picked one that had no minutes on it yet, and punched in a number.

"Staal? It's time for you to go." He listened as the person on the other end dropped the phone and a feminine voice said, "Eric? Who is it?"

Mr. Smith heard what sounded like the rustle of bedclothes and the closing of a door, then a whispered, "Already? I was hoping for a little more time. Tanya, the kids…"

"I understand," Mr. Smith said soothingly. "But Mr. Fehr has decided…"

"Yeah, okay," sighed Staal. "The others, too, right?"

"Well, yes," Mr. Smith said, real regret in his heart. "But…I'm afraid you won't be going together."

"What? No, no, that can't be right. They – _he_ can't do that." Staal sounded appalled and dismayed. Mr. Smith felt for him, he truly did.

But he remained silent. It was completely unnecessary for him to say that Mr. Fehr could do whatever he wanted.

"Dammit," Staal sighed. "All right, where to?"

"Sweden. There is a team there that is expecting you."

"And the others? Can I at least ask where they're going?"

Mr. Smith shuffled the papers in front of him, drawing two of them from the pile. "Certainly. Marc Staal is going to Switzerland and Jordan Staal is going to Russia. Magnitogorsk, to be exact. He will be playing with Evgeni Malkin." He hoped that last bit of news would make the separation of the brothers somewhat more acceptable, at least for Jordan.

Checking the clock, Mr. Smith said, "I must go now. Your agent will receive the relevant documents tomorrow. Please do not contact your brothers until all of your agents have been informed," he added, letting the gravity of his voice convey the importance of the instructions.

"Have – have you called them yet?" Staal asked.

"No. I will be doing so shortly." He hesitated, then said, "Good luck," before he hung up.

Choosing a different phone from his carefully sorted stash, Mr. Smith dialed the next Staal on his list.

"Switzerland," he said to Marc Staal.

"Just me?" Staal replied. "Really?"

"Russia," he said to Jordan Staal. "Magnitogorsk," he added.

"With Geno?" asked Staal delightedly. "Okay!" His enthusiasm lightened Mr. Smith's mood considerably, for which he was grateful.

His work finished for the evening, Mr. Smith retired to bed, his cat curled up on his pillow, her tail twitching in his ear.

*

There were more "meetings" between the League and the PA, this time in Toronto. From what Mr. Smith could gather, the two sides agreed on the number of miles a team could travel before the mode of transportation switched from bus to plane, and how many magazine covers Henrik Lundqvist could appear on in one calendar year.

He shook his head and waited for the next name to appear in his text box.

Two days later, TSN announced that Zach Parise and Ryan Suter had signed to play with Jagr's team in the Czech Republic.

Mr. Smith couldn't help the proud smile he directed at his cat, even if she remained unimpressed.

*

Something had to be done about Crosby. Mr. Fehr had actually called to speak to Mr. Smith in person, to ask him about his progress in the matter. There was a cold knot in the pit of Mr. Smith's stomach as he went over the conversation in his head.

"Mr. Smith, I hope you're well. As you know, the time is coming nearer. The Players Association must make a major statement."

"Yes," Mr. Smith said. "I'm aware…" he trailed off. If Crosby went to Europe, that would surely force the League to sit up and take notice. To realize just what they were jeopardizing by trying to break the union instead of letting them play hockey.

Sidney Crosby was the greatest hockey player on the face of the earth. He was the most important player in the NHL. He had the best ass in hockey. Mr. Smith was aware that some people thought that honor belonged to Jonathan Toews, but he disagreed.

"Mr. Smith," Mr. Fehr said, startling Mr. Smith and recalling his attention back to the matter at hand. "Sidney Crosby must go to Europe, and soon."

Mr. Smith nodded. "Yes, sir, I'm working –"

"I'm sure I don't need to tell you," Mr. Fehr said, continuing as if Mr. Smith hadn't spoken, "how important this is." His voice was cold, with just a hint of menace in it.

"No, sir." Mr. Smith closed his eyes, took a fortifying breath, and then said, "Four hundred thousand dollars a month to insure his contract is a difficult obstacle to overcome, sir." His heart pounded at his audacity.

There was a momentary silence on the other end of the phone, and Mr. Smith attempted to swallow the lump of fear in his throat.

"I'm sure it is, but I have every confidence in you, Mr. Smith," Mr. Fehr said silkily. "I'm depending on you not to let me down."

"Y-yes, sir," Mr. Smith said, but he was speaking into a void. Mr. Fehr had hung up.

*

There was only one thing left to do. Mr. Smith would not allow Crosby to play anywhere other than with Malkin. And for that he needed help.

He selected yet another burner phone and dialed the number he'd been keeping in reserve for just such desperate circumstances.

It rang several times, while sweat trickled between Mr. Smith's shoulder blades. Finally, someone picked up. A gravely voice said in heavily-accented English: 

"USA Prime Credit. My name Peggy. You have question?"

"Peggy? Smith here. I need your help with Crosby. This is going to be a tough one..."

"I see what I can do. Hold please."

"Peggy? Peggy?"

Mournful violin music filled his ears.

Mr. Smith's cat sat at his feet, staring up at him with something approximating sympathy. Then she yawned and walked away, leaving him all alone.


End file.
